


Loser

by Tierfal



Category: Death Note
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mello teaches Near a crucially-important life skill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenwryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/gifts).



> If you like Odd, he also hangs out in "[The Hunt](http://community.livejournal.com/tierfallen/97001.html)," because he's a pimp like that.

Near sat cross-legged on the floor, white fingers playing over the brightly-colored building blocks. The contrast, Mello couldn't help but notice, was striking.

Near set an orange block atop two green towers to make an arch—a gateway into his walled city—and Mello had an idea.

"Hey, loser," he said, vaulting off the couch to go stand over his archnemesis—pun very much unintentional. "That's not very ambitious."

Near blinked placid gray eyes up at him, unperturbed, waiting for him to explain.

Mello waited for Near to ask.

Near gazed at him, expression unrevealing, and said nothing.

Damn albino jerk. He was even better at _waiting_.

Mello gave in. He could always break a robot later.

(Matt had once called him on the fact that he never _had_ broken a robot, as he had frequently threatened to do, and Mello had punched him hard enough to give him dead-arm. Matt had laughed.)

"We should make a fort," Mello announced. "We can use the couch cushions and the million pillows on your bed."

Near's head tilted as if it was weighted just slightly on one side.

"A fort?" he repeated.

"Come on," Mello ordered. "I'll show you." He paused. "…loser."

Near collected himself to his sock-clad feet, looking vaguely unsteady on his legs—as if they were insufficient to support his weight, which was patently untrue, since he was so small to start with.

Mr. Know-It-All-and-Tell-You-So was surprisingly cooperative as Mello piled pillows into his outstretched arms. When Near looked like he might sway if Mello added another, he gathered the rest himself and imperiously led the way back to the playroom.

He almost tripped and face-planted on the hardwood, but he caught himself in time. How the hell did Near skate around in socks all the time without falling, anyway?

That was _really_ sad. Near never even stood up, but he was still better at _walking_ than Mello was.

Mello frowned to himself, shouldered his way into the room again, and dropped the pillows to the floor.

"We should make the basic structure with the cushions," he declared. "Maybe we can prop it up with the edge of the couch and only build three sides."

Near was quiet and helpful as Mello ordered him around and stacked and balanced the cushions as solidly as he could. If the thing fell apart, he'd have to kill Near before either of them could acknowledge the evident truth that Near was also a better architect.

As it was, Mello managed a fort that wasn't half-bad—lopsided, to be sure, but with only three cushions to work with, he figured that wasn't too shabby.

Near was sitting again, admiring the marvel of improvisational construction.

"It's nice," he decided. He considered, finger moving mechanically in his hair. "Now what?"

Mello looked at him. This was probably the dumbest thing Near had ever said. It might have been the _only_ dumb thing Near had ever said.

"We play in it," Mello informed him, "_loser_."

Near eyed it dubiously. "How do you play with a bunch of pillows?" he asked.

Mello scowled at him. "Aren't you supposed to be smart?" he fired back. "You play with it like it's a _fort_, dummy; that's why they call it that."

Near wrinkled his nose as he thought this answer over.

"But we don't have any projectiles," he said.

Mello hated how totally awesome that sounded.

"Come _on_," he insisted. "We'll just sit in here and spy on people or something. If you bring your stupid blocks, we can throw them at people."

By the time Near had collected every one of the blocks in question, Mello had hunkered down amongst the pillows lumped at the far end of the fort, peering out and feeling remarkably sneaky. Near crawled in to join him, laying their building-block arsenal just inside the small pillow barrier Mello had arranged, and they knelt side-by-side in the safety of the shadow.

Odyssey—Odd for short, and no one let him forget it—chose that moment to enter the room, looking around, presumably for something that had been taken from him and hidden rather than simply misplaced. At the nigh-on-inconceivable age of seventeen, Odd never really used the playroom, except sometimes for reading; he was too busy working small-time cases in liaison with the Southampton police for much in the way of play.

Mello threw a block, deliberately missing Odd's right knee.

Odd started in surprise, brown eyes wide, and, with mounting horror, noticed the fort.

"Oh, my God!" he cried as Mello pitched another weapon. "Run for your lives before they pour the boiling oil!" He covered his head—whether to protect his brain or his extremely beloved newsboy cap was debatable—and fled to the hall, ushered there by a flurry of harmlessly-aimed blocks from Mello's hand.

The door slammed shut, and Mello looked to Near, who was… smiling?

Well, at least Mello was better at one thing.

Odd's voice wafted down the hall.

"Don't go in there! It's a _massacre_!"

Near giggled.

Mello stared at his companion for a second, and then he shoved a couple pillows into place, improving the parapet-nest around them and settling down into it.

Near curled up beside him, twisting a finger in that crazy hair.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now we wait for the next fool who wants a face full of building blocks," Mello explained.

Near smiled again. He was getting markedly better at it already—Mello just couldn't _win_.

He was distracted from an elaborate plan to figure out how to get into the X Games when a small, warm hand fluttered at his arm.

"Thank you for teaching me how to play in a fort, Mello," Near said, looking at him, the wide, solemn eyes gleaming in the dark.

Mello scowled so that he wouldn't smile. "Sure, loser."

Near paused, fingers brushing in a jerky, compulsive rhythm at Mello's sleeve, and then he leaned in and pressed their mouths together before Mello had a chance to breathe.

Mello was pretty sure he could stay ahead at _this_.

…but it almost didn't matter now.

And that was a nice thing.


End file.
